Buried Alive in the Familiar Sands

So I've been thinking lately about my talents. Like, actual tangible talents. Not what I like or wish I could be good at. Talents. Things I have done and done well. And not to be a self-depreciating butt-head but...I got nothin'. 

I won't go into a Dashboard Confessional-esque list of things I'm not good at like Cat's Cradle or being loved. But I will however delve into the possibility that I am severely lacking in the passion department. There are very few things that can get me excited nowadays--in either a good way or a bad way. 

I think part of this non-riveting dilemma is due to the fear of being let down. We all do it as part of a defense mechanism. To look forward to something and open up to an opportunity is to also, by the same hand, open up to vulnerability. And where vulnerability lies, as do the choices and chances that we are afraid to take due to the fear. 

So it sucks. 

It sucks that I am basically a Nervous Nancy when it comes to accepting  opportunities, possibilities, chances, choices, leaps of faith and contingencies. (Hello, Thesaurus?) 

Suck. Suck Suck.

So while I buried my head in the familiar sands of Woodstock, IL, Culver's, my mother's home, my friends, my family: I MISSED THE FUCK OUT. And yes, it is never too late for anything ever. But I'm just mad. 

I'm mad that it took this long to realize what was with me. It took THIS long to realize I'm afraid. It took THIS long to find out that I'm tired of being scared. It took THIS long to be ready for fucking chances. 

But fuck it. I'm ready now. And while I still am scared, I know it is not the end. I've seen enough unfairness and heartache to know that while it may be terrible and dumb and shitty, it's almost never the end. And I know that even if I do mess up with whatever ignites my dormant passion, I will be forgiven by those who matter most. My friends. My family. My dog.

"Fuck it!" - S.Hanson: Jumping on stage for kareoke.

"Fuck it!" - S.Hanson: Talking to cute guy at ________.

"Fuck it!" - S.Hanson: Auditioning for The Conservatory.

"Fuck it!" - S.Hanson: Signing up for school.

"Fuck it!" - S.Hanson: Trying something new.

"Fuck it!" - S.Hanson: Trying it again. 

And yes, parentals (Who don't know about this blog, so why I'm addressing them, I don't know), I will proceed with caution and a pocket knife into this 'Fuck it' journey. All I ask is for a little support. And a little bit more money. ((((:

Stay Classy, One Follower. 

MOVING

I'm moving to Chicago, my lovelies. I am so happy but I am also wrapped up in a big ball angst and panic. I think once things become more concrete I will feel better. Until then I will be making a mental list...(and probably a physical list because I LOVE WRITING LISTS) of all the things that I love about Chicago and things that get me amped up and excited for life and stuff.

This post is lame but I don't care. I need to be up in like 5 hours for work but I had to just say it. Sometimes that's all you need to feel better.

Thoughts, consider yourselves released into the wild. Be freeeeeeeeeeeee!

oajsaklf djslfk jdslfkjasdlfsdsoexcitedkjjjafljds lasdjflkdjs fksdjfksldjascaredjakdlfjs lafadsit'sfine.bye.

P.S. Am I the only one who thinks wrap dresses are THE devil? Sure they look cute. But at what cost? Those dresses are the equivalent of 6 necklaces being thrown in a blender. Amirite?

Ain't Nobody Got Time Fo Dat

BLECK. I'm tired of starting a post then just staring at it. I just stew over this nonsensical piece. Why?Extremely low (non-existent) fan base aside, why? Much like the rest of the human race, I am constantly going things over in my head. Was it funny or clever enough, did it make sense, was it grammatically correct, can they tell I had an Everything bagel and shmear this morning? But you need to remind yourself, or at the very least, I need to remind myself that other people probably don't care as much about you as you do. (Does that read right? Meh, fuck it. It's English.) The reason people aren't hanging on your every word or noticing the stuff you find so blaringly obvious is they're doing the same thing as you. They wonder if anyone is gonna notice that deoderant stain on their shirt, that they've worn the same jeans for 4 days in a row, that they said 'furgle' instead of 'fertile' or that wad of spit that launched across the room when you put a little too much emphasis on the 'ch' when you said spinach.

Now, I could stare at this, preview it 6 times and edit the fuck out of it until it becomes a post over straight up spinach. But fuck that. My initial gut/idea/intuition/ghost spirit angels usually lead me in the right direction. It's just my dumb brain that tries (and succeeds) to ruin it. So here it is. I will reread this sombitch once over and release it into the wild.

Have at it, my friends.

Sacrificial Offerings to Universe.

Okay, this will be REAL quick cuz I gotta go to class and turn dis shiz in but I was hopin' to hear thoughts...from my one follower? Whatevs. Just have to get it off my chest and into the universe. So here it is, Universe, have your way with it. Slut.

THE JACKPOT

By Sam Hanson

11/21/12 Version 1

CAST

Sam – Late 20’s

Dylan – Late 20’s

(Sam is walking down a street and he sees a friend he hasn’t seen in a while, Dylan, who looks depressed and a little paranoid. Sam stops Dylan to catch up.)

SAM

Hey, what’ve you been up to?

DYLAN

(Not excited about his news)

Not much. I, uh, won the lottery a few weeks back.

SAM

No way! How much?

DYLAN

(Looking around)

Uh, that $10,000 a week for life thing…

SAM

Are you joking?? That’s amazing!

DYLAN

Yeah…it’s alright.

SAM

Dude, that’s like…

(Does the math in his head quickly)

…$520,000 a year!

DYLAN

Yeah…

SAM

What’s wrong with you? Why aren’t you excited about this? Most 

people would kill for this!

DYLAN

(Leaning in and confiding in Sam)

Well, funny you should mention that. I don’t want to sound crazy, but I don’t really trust it.

SAM

Like a lotto curse?

DYLAN

Yeah but like more direct than that.

SAM

What do you mean?

DYLAN

Okay, so I get these checks right? They mail ‘em to me every week—

which is cool but they keep giving me these coupons and stuff.

SAM

…So?

DYLAN

Well, the certificates or whatever are for like, exceptionally dangerous activities.

SAM

(Laughs)

What? What are they for?

DYLAN

Well, the first check had a coupon for a free base jumping lesson and skydiving class.

SAM

Cool!

DYLAN

Yeah, that’s what I thought, but they just kept coming in;

(Dylan pulls a bunch of coupons, certificates and flyers from his 

back pocket and shows them to Sam)

bull riding, shark tank exploration, extreme parkour courses, 30% off firearms at Cabella’s. And then they got even weirder—I got DVD’s on chainsaw carving, how to make meth 101, a lifetime supply of bacon and cigarettes, a free deep fryer and 26 cases of Twinkies…

SAM

You could probably turn a profit with those Twinkies, man…

DYLAN

Sam! Be serious.

SAM

Okay, okay. So what does all of this say?

DYLAN

I think the lotto people are trying to kill me!

SAM

I don’t know, man. Maybe they’re just trying to be nice. Everyone likes free shit, ya know? They’re always throwing money and free swag at rich people. Kim Kardashian will never have to pay for a spray tan or yoga class again in her life. And anytime a celebrity goes anywhere like a red carpet thing, I’m pretty sure they get a free Smart Car and a Labradoodle.

DYLAN

But this is different! A guest spot on Swamp People, Ice Road Truckers, Deadliest Catch and American Idol? That’s practically third degree murder right there!

SAM

American Idol though? …It makes sense.

DYLAN

What do I do? They just sent me one for a Hunger Games simulation. I am so afraid to know what that would be.

SAM

Maybe it’s a friendly game of lazer tag…with arrows?

DYLAN

Sam! Please! You gotta help me! I can’t take it anymore! Everywhere I go all I can envision are Final Destination-type deaths and 1,000 Ways to Die doing an overly dramatic dramatization of my death where I get decapitated by my own surfboard.

SAM

You don’t even surf!

DYLAN

WELL I HAVE A COUPON, SO MAYBE I SHOULD! AHHHHHHHHH!

(Dylan throws the coupons in the air and crosses the street in furry)

SAM

Dylan! Watch out for that bus with the lottery advertisement on it!

 (Blackout and a crash is heard)

EVERYONE PRAISE ME.

A single calendar year has passed since I've indulged in a cigarette. REJOICE. 

Now, I've just gotta kick that meth habit and I'm woman of the year! WHOOT. Move over Tina Fey, I'm gunnin' fo ya. (No disrespect, you are queen) Who knew that sheer will power and a hint of Streptococcus would do the trick. I do miss smoking sometimes, mostly for the social aspect and because I want to look like James Franco in Freaks and Geeks (I'm obsessed.). But alas, I will never be a Daniel Desario (It's the hair) and now I'm okay with it. 

Because when I smoked I couldn't enjoy these supremely wonderful perks:

Hugging my dad without him hitting me in the head, saying I smell like an ashtray.

Smelling the shampoo in my hair.

Breath that smells like the food you just ate. 

Being fucking warm during the winter months. 

Not being rained/snowed/wind-ed on while driving and smoking. 

Not having that ache in your chest the next morning after partying.

Less time spent outside, sucking on a cigarette, staring into the abyss, being all deep and stuff.

Staying at home with my family more.

I don't die as much whilst running. 

People not preaching at me 'smoking's bad for you, you know?' (FYI: Yes, I am aware. Thanks.)

Having money for things. 

Not tweeking so much about mouth and other cancers.

Smelling like my perfume. 

Not embarrassed when my little brother or any other family member rides in my car. 

My dog doesn't judge me as much.

No ashes to wipe off my dashboard or burn holes in my seats.

So whenever I feel like I want one I take a deep breath. A sip of water. And chill the fuck out. Because that one drag won't be worth the sense of pride I feel when I wake up knowing I went another day without one. Now seriously, about that meth thing...

GURGLEGARGLEBRAINFARTS

So, I have 4 published posts (this hopefully being the fifth) and 8 drafts. EIGHT. My problem isn't a lack of ideas but I have no way to condense them and make them function together as one bad ass Transformer/Power Ranger robot of a blog. I've always prided myself on my eclectic style, presuming it gave me an air of whimsy and a relaxed attitude. But under further review, I came to realize it might not as whimsical and chill as I had hoped:

My bedroom has no real them but lots of different pretty things mixed together with a collection of WalMart grocery bags thrown into one general vicinity.

My wardrobe is a funky mix of cute shit from Target, gifts via relatives, and things that fall under the category: 'what still fits me'.

To passersby, my car may appear to double as my home due to the accumulation of blankets, water bottles, notebooks and a ever-growing collection of mismatching socks.

And my hair is just a plain mystery. Some days I think I am pulling off the voluminous, unruly vibe like one of those One Direction boys then I realize the back of my head looks one dread. Just one.

So yes, this all could either be cute and eclectic or it could be considered Crazy Lady Chic. And while all signs are pointing to ever-so charming CLC, I'm gonna stick to my guns and keep with this hodgepodge mentality, any other lifestyle seems like a snooze.

If I wasn't like this, I wouldn't have that fuzzy lamp next to my bed or that random purple desk that I love, I'd have to say no to crazy, awesome things because 'it doesn't go with the decor'. My clothes would be lame and far to monochromatic to be flattering. I already have everything I need in the convenience of my backseat, and if need be, I could actually live there. And my hair...well, actually it could use a little help.

OH YEAH, and I'll totally try and start making this shit run smoother. Hokay?

How To Get Stood Up Like a Pro

This is a subject I am unfortunate enough to write about. I, as someone who has been sufficiently stood up tonight, will take you through the motions to recover from this ego blow. Shall we?

Step 1: DO NOT CRY. This guy/gal (for confusion's sake, we will consider him a dude) is obvi a total doucher. So to cry might make it feel like, in the end game, he wins by making you feel something without ever actually meeting him. 

Step 2: DO NOT MAKE A SCENE. I hope to the son of Zuez, you don't have to even consider this step because you  were ditched prior to arriving at your meeting place. Nothing is worse than punching your Mocha Caramel Frap across the Starbucks lobby and then having to explain yourself in gross sob-y tears whilst cleaning it up. 

Step 3: GO TO YOUR HOME-Y PLACE. Okay, you don't neccesarily need to go home but somewhere where you feel 'at home'. So a friend's house, your mom's place or your local Bath and Body Works, wherever. This will not only make you feel better but also strengthen your connection to that place or person (or store employee). 

Step 4: TAKE SOME SESSUAL PICTURES OF YA BAD SELF. You may roll your eyes but take some cell phone pictures of yourself. Go all out, get your best angles. Who cares if you look like one of those spikey-haired tools on POF? Remind yourself of how smokin' you are and what a loss it is for that loser. Also, you may or may not get an excellent FB profile picture out of it. Two birds?

Step 5: CRANK UP DA JAMS, MAN. There are few times where you are allowed to publicly display your terrible taste in music. Every other day of they year, you must bite your lip when they play Save a Horse Ride a Cowboy. Not today, my friend. Let your deaf flag fly as you blare Buckcherry, Hinder, Glee or whatever else the hipsters have deemed uncool. 

Step 6: BE WITH YOUR PEOPLE. If you're not already, surround yourself with the people that make you feel like your at your best. These, are your people. Don't let 'em go. Either chill and talk about it over some Broccoli Cheese Breadbowls from the best place on Earth. Or venture into the night, find a new fellow or at least use up your allotted terrible song choices on the snobby DJ. He would just love to play Since U Been Gone by Kelly Clarkson...again. 

Step 7: GET OVER IT. Whoa, that looks rather forceful in all caps. Here: get over it. See, that looks less threatening. But seriously, don't take it personally. It's not because he could tell that one boob was bigger than the other or knows you snore quite forcefully at night. He never got a chance to learn about these weird, beautiful quirks you posses, so fuck that guy...or girl.

(OH and if you want, you may take the high road and never speak to him again. OR you can mess with him via text. But be sure not to cross the line into detrimental, he didn't hit you with his car or anything.)